Between The Lines
by Katelyn Isilhin
Summary: **SPOILERS FOR HLV** A collection of oneshots, all set during HLV filling in the spaces. Parts of Sherlock's hospitalization, other conversations and situations that must have happened, but we didn't get to see onscreen. Rated T just in case I do anything crazy. No slash, profanity or sex, like always. Please Read and Review!
1. It's Pouring

_**A/N:** Hello all. Excuse me while I do my obligatory_

_*****SPOILERS FOR S3*****_

_Thanks. Now, once again I felt like they left out a lot of emotional fleshing in His Last Vow. The events (set over a long period of time) were slotted in very close together, leaving a lot of enticing gaps. So this is the first of a series of drabbles that are set during the episode, happened during events from another character's POV or a scene that must have happened offscreen. It's going to focus mostly on the Watsons. I'll try to do them in chronological order, but no guarantees. _

_This one is about John's POV when Sherlock was shot. I LOVED Sherlock's Mind Palace POV, but I was sad that John's was glossed over. So I made this thing. I know nothing at all about the way hospitals or ambulances or anything works, so I'm throwing out guesses here. Please R&R!_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

John Watson had a very bad feeling about this.

Sherlock had wandered off, investigating the office, leaving John to take care of his not-for-long fiancee. John cringed internally at thought. Firstly because it was a strangely perverse idea, that any person could have such a claim on Sherlock. Second, he couldn't believe Sherlock had done something so utterly heartless. John knew better than anyone (other than perhaps the Holmes family) that Sherlock was a very warm and deep person, but he was capable of such cold acts that it was hard to believe. Never out of cruelty, but - necessity. And thirdly, because Jeanine was going to be spitting fire when she found out, and John wasn't eager to be around when that happened.

"Wha' happened." The Irishwoman slurred, from where John had moved her to her back.

"You've taken a blow to the head. You've got a light concussion, but nothing serious." John said in his professional voice. The woman nodded and flinched.

"Sherl?" she asked, worry glinting in her eyes in between lazy blinks. The nickname made John's stomach turn.

"Don't know," John said lowly, checking her one last time.

"Go get him, tiger." Jeanine said with a weak smile. "I'll be fine. I've been through worse." The army doctor pushed away a wave of guilt.

"Thank you. Stay still," John said with a kind tone.

She would be fine. The doctor in him was reluctant to leave her, but there was an uneasy nagging in his chest that urged him to move on. John briefly checked the guard, finding him unconscious, probably heavily concussed. No heavy bleeding, nothing John could really do to help. Sherlock took precedence, wherever he had ran off to.

John kept to a light trot, going up stairs and through hallways. Where was Sherlock? There was a door ajar, catching his attention in the uniform world of locked doors. He pushed it open, the sight inside causing a spike of adrenaline to explode in his chest.

Both Magnussen and Sherlock were on the ground, the former in a slightly curled position, mostly facing the floor, while the latter was flat on his back, spread eagle.

"Sherlock." he said breathlessly, worry making his face haggard. Without thinking John rushed to Sherlock's side, bending over the prone consulting detective. Pale face, clammy skin; not good. He patted Sherlock's cheek, trying to get a repsonse.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" he said calmly. No answer. He leaned close, listening for breathing. There was a rapid pace of exhaling, shallow and weak. Very bad.

"What happened?" he asked in an almost demanding tone, directing the question toward the freakishly tall man stirring at the other end of the room.

Magnussen seemed to smile. "He was shot." he said matter-of-factly. John's hands worked quickly, undoing the button of Sherlock's blazer. He was greeted by a small splatter of blood, just below and slightly to the right of the sternum.

"Oh my God." he breathed, more a prayer than a curse, the seriousness of the situation making his heart skip a beat. In an instant he had his phone out, calling 999, breaking and entering charges be hanged. Sherlock was in very grave danger.

"Who shot him?" he demanded of the appalling man who was adjusting the spectacles on his face.

The man just smiled, not saying a word. John gave up on that and turned his full attention on the too-still consulting detective next to him. The operator picked up and asked the routine questions. John gave a short explanation of the situation and the address of the building, waiting on the exact location in the building until the time came. He listed everything that was going wrong in his friend's body, muttering it under his breath, but also into the receiver.

"Massive internal bleeding, probable liver damage, shock, possible damage to the inferior vena cava, possible hemopnuemothorax, already suffering from hypoxia..." his voice broke and he trailed off. He made sure Sherlock's airway was open and tried not to panic. There was nothing else he could do. Nothing he could do to help his best friend who was bleeding to death in front of him, his life melting away like winter's first snowflake on the pavement. It was St. Bart's all over again.

"Sherlock," he said, placing his hand on his friend's cheek, "Listen to me, you git. Don't you dare die. Just hang on, you'll be fine." He had started out firm and ended shaky. Sherlock was right about emotions. They were incredibly annoying and distracting. But unlike Sherlock, John couldn't just turn it off. John's heart clenched painfully when Sherlock whimpered slightly, his jaw muscles tightening against the pain.

He stayed close, taking Sherlock's pulse in his wrist and systemically checking his breathing, both of which were worsening far too quickly to allow John to breathe normally. He swallowed and bowed his head, fury and grief raging in his chest. Every second counted, each moment allowed the bullet wound to bleed out further, inflaming the tissues and lowering blood pressure, causing the heart to beat faster and faster, quickening the pace of bleeding. Blood loss, one of the body's few positive feedback systems. The ambulance had to get here in the next couple of minutes or Sherlock would definitely die. Both the doctor and the detective's faces continued to lose their color, but Sherlock never had any to spare, so soon he looked as pale as - as a corpse.

The operator asked where they were in the building, and John was able to direct them to the correct floor. Thankfully security let them through, probably not realizing who the paramedics were for. He heard them arrive in the lift, rolling out a gurney.

"In here!" he yelled loud enough for all of London to hear. They took less than 30 seconds to find the room, and one paramedic ran to Magnussen, the rest of them focusing on Sherlock. John would not have tolerated anything less.

"He's fading fast. Nearly at maximum blood loss, already suffering hypoxia." he said authoritatively to his fellow medical professionals, who nodded and lifted the unconscious man onto the gurney, and fitted him with an oxygen mask. John was instantly back on the sidewalk outside St. Barts on that fateful morning, seeing Sherlock's bloodied carcass being lifted onto a gurney and carted away, but to the morgue instead of the ICU.

Whoever had done this would pay dearly. John would see to that, if he had to do it with his own two hands. Who would even dare do this?

When John moved to follow them out of the room, one held out his hand, stopping him.

"I'm family," John said quickly, and ran alongside them as they hurried to the lift and started to go down.

He looked at Sherlock's ashen face, a faint fog of moisture periodically clouding the mask over his nose and mouth. His eyes cracked open for a moment, and John got right in front him saying his name when they quickly closed again, wrenched shut in pain. John couldn't help but mimic the action.

They arrived downstairs and John kept alongside Sherlock as they ran, always trying to be in his line of sight in case he woke up again. The lights of the ambulance flashed brightly in the parking lot, drawing them like moths. Sherlock was quickly loaded into the back, and John followed, not waiting to ask permission. He seated himself next to the hauntingly still consulting detective just as the vehicle took of at a not-so-legal pace, zooming off to the hospital. Sherlock seemed to regain consciousness, his eyes opening a slit. But his gaze was utterly blank as his head lolled lazily with the frantic movements of the van. The normally marble-ivory of Sherlock's skin was now as white as a sheet, now turning a deathly pallor of grey.

"Sherlock?" John said nervously. One of the paramedics ripped open Sherlock's shirt front, revealing the wound. There wasn't much blood to be seen, making John's stomach clench with the knowledge of how much internal bleeding there had to be, throwing off the acid-base balance and causing a lot of cell death from the loss of aerobic respiration.

"We're losing you," he scolded, trying to motivate his friend to hold on. Sherlock just closed his eyes again, and faded away. John made a tight fist, so tight that his knuckles turned white. A thought occurred to him and he whipped out his phone and dialed while he asked anyone in earshot a crucial question.

"What hospital are we going to?" he asked, trying to sound polite but probably ending up being the exact opposite. A young man next to him glared a moment before answering.

"Royal London Hospital, sir." he said, a bit tersely.

"Thank you," John bit off before almost yelling into the phone, cutting off whatever the other person had been saying.

"Shut up Mycroft. Sherlock has been shot. He's dying. We're going to Royal London Hospital. Have the best staff and rooms waiting. No, we don't know who the shooter is," he said, taking slight pity on the steady stream of questions before hanging up.

He also texted Mary and Lestrade, giving them a brief run-down of the situation, not trusting his voice enough to call. Best not to tell Mrs. Hudson at all, not now.

It was all so surreal. Was this really happening? Or was this another one of his nightmares? But there Sherlock was in front of him, with an accusingly red circle where a piece of metal had penetrated. He remembered a phrase from Shakespeare, though probably not accurately. '..._ruby red lips crying out in grief._..' Something like that, after Caesar had been stabbed, they were talking about the wounds. Speaking of Sherlock's chest, there was some light hair on it. He hadn't had any during the Buckingham Palace incident. So then was he waxing before, or had he miraculously sprouted some? Perhaps Jeanine liked it. He fought back a wave of nausea, realizing he had literally worried himself sick. Not that anyone would blame him.

The ambulance arrived at the hospital, and Sherlock was rushed away to an operating room.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to wait in the waiting room," said a middle-aged woman, almost forcibly holding John back from trailing after the gurney.

"That makes sense, that's why it's called a waiting room, isn't it?" he said bitterly, giving up. He allowed himself to be led to the area in question, ignoring everyone else in the room with him. John ignored the trilling of his phone, probably Mary and Lestrade asking questions that he was either unable or unwilling to honestly answer. He paced restlessly, like Sherlock would when he was hot on a scent. He couldn't even agonize without Sherlock helping him along. How could he have let this happen?! He never should have let Sherlock go off by himself. But then, he had never been able to make Sherlock do a single bleeding thing he didn't want to do. Who was he kidding, he was useless.

John didn't keep track of the progression of time, lost in his dark thoughts. Suddenly a young woman approached him out of the corner of his eye, and he turned eagerly for any news.

Her face. Her face was wrong.

"No." John choked out, and she started to speak in a calm tone.

"Sir, I'm very sorry but-" she said, looking fearfully at him.

"**_NO!_**" he exploded, making everyone in earshot (which was quite a lot of people) jump.

"_No_," he continued, his anger becoming a very dangerous calm. "You go back in there. You try again. You try _harder_." John said, his breathing heavy. A small part of his brain was screaming for him to shut up, that it wasn't her fault. But he ignored it.

"Sherlock Holmes cannot be dead." he said quietly, shaking his head. "He can't be. It's _impossible_." He took a few calming breaths before continuing to speak to the nurse, who was too petrified to move. "I refuse to accept this. Is it too much to ask for you to just keep _one man_ alive!" He ducked his head and finished, "Just one."

"He lost too much blood," she squeaked, clutching her clipboard nervously.

"I don't _care_!" John said, barely managing to keep from shouting again. "Give him more then. Drain _me_ if you have to. But you are _not_ going to give up on him." John said, his steam nowhere close to running out.

"Sir, please-" she started, her voice almost in a whisper, but John interrupted her.

"Just _leave_!" he snapped, and she scurried away, sniveling. He bowed his head and clenched his fist, angry with his unbridled behaviour.

He sat heavily in a chair, dropping his head in his hands, something deep in his soul praying that the nurse had been wrong.

Sherlock was not dead, he couldn't be.

_It's my fault. _

_I've failed him again._

If John had just been faster in finding him, if he had run instead of walked. If he hadn't spent so long on Jeanine. If he hadn't been so useless.

If, if if.

It was an agonizing game to play.

If.

He was numb. Like after Sherlock had died the first time. And now Sherlock had the nerve to go and do it to John again. To think that the great detective Sherlock Holmes could be so affected by such a small thing. All it took was a tiny piece of metal to bring the world crashing down. Just one bullet to make such a great man nothing more than a corpse in a morgue. It was all so unfair.

He hadn't noticed someone was standing directly in front of him.

"Sir?" said a low male voice with a Scottish accent. John looked up, his expression blank.

"We're moving him to the recovery ward," continued the blond-haired man, adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. "He's sedated, but he should be awake in a few hours."

John's face became a mask of shock.

"What?" he said hoarsely, blinking rapidly. He rose, suddenly bursting with energy.

"We don't know how, but he came through," said Dr. - John looked at the nametag - McKline. "We thought we had lost him when he suddenly regained consciousness. It's a miracle," said the doctor, seeming honestly bewildered. John was too busy melting in relief and thanking whatever deity had listened to him to immediately respond.

His phone went off, announcing a text from his wife. He glanced at it, the brief message saying she was here.

"Thank you," he said breathlessly to the kind-hearted doctor with a wide grin, who nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait," John said, a sudden thought occurring to him. McKline turned back around, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You said he was conscious? Did he say anything?" John said, hoping Sherlock had said who the shooter was. The sooner the better, so they could start a search. Whoever it was was going to have a whole lot of angry and dangerous people to deal with. Sherlock was nowhere close to friendless or unloved, no matter what he thought.

"He didn't say much. Just... 'Mary'," said the McKline, clearly not concerned about it. John thanked him again and went to go find his wife. Why she had been Sherlock's first thought after being so close to death, John didn't know. But it didn't matter. It was going to be a very long and grueling recovery. That didn't matter either. John's face had a smile irreversibly etched into it, exuding a warm atmosphere to everyone nearby.

What was important was that Sherlock was alive.

And whoever had done this to him wouldn't be for much longer. Everyone would see to that.


	2. Room 221

_**A/N:** Hellooooo my lovelies. I think I'm going to stop putting the spoiler warning, if you're dumb enough to not know there's spoilers in here, I can't be bothered. Here we have the scene where Mary tells Sherlock not to tell John. I actually meant for it to be the scene where Sherlock wakes up and talks with John for the first time, but then upon rewatching it, I decided that this was Sherlock's first time being conscious. I guess the next one will be when John talks with him. I dunno. _

_It starts from John's POV and about halfway through switches to Mary's, it's set pretty much right after the scene in the episode where John meets Mary in the hospital. Mary's section has a lot of character study. I've never written for her character before, so I really hope it's IC. I don't have a mental image of her personality yet, this is a test run. Please give me lots of feedback, I need every iota I can get. So leave me review, please. And enjoy!_

* * *

Dr. and Mrs. John Watson walked quickly down the hallway, the instructions of the receptionist echoing in John's head: "Down that hall, take a right, Room 221." They had both laughed, what were the chances? John was willing to bet that Mycroft had something to do with it. Mid-morning light streamed in through the windows; John hadn't even noticed the night passing. The rays of sunlight were a good omen, he thought. Night had passed, now it was clear sailing.

"Here it is," Mary said, pointing at the door with '221' on an adjacent plaque.

John opened the door and pushed it open, stepping inside.

There he was.

Sherlock was absolutely still, lying on a hospital bed with an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula in his nostrils. His top half was exposed, with a blanket covering him waist down. There was a perfectly white bandage over his bullet wound, proudly boasting of stopped bleeding. He was still too pale, and he looked so tiny and vulnerable, exposed and young. Gently, his chest rose and fell, setting a slow and even rhythm that testified to the danger having passed.

John felt further relief coursing through him at the sight; Sherlock was really going to be okay. Mary was suddenly right next to him, and entwined her fingers in his. He squeezed her hand in thanks and walked the both of them over to a chair, where he was tempted to stay until Sherlock woke up. The curtains and blinds were closed, letting in only a warm yellow glow that kept the room in relative darkness.

"I'm going to kill him," John said suddenly, making Mary laugh.

"Well that's hardly fair," she said, her voice low with humour.

"He shot my best friend. Whoever he is, wherever he is, I'll find him." John said solemnly. Mary's face froze for a second before dissolving into a relaxed smile.

"Oh, I thought you meant Sherlock." said the nurse, a wry grin working it's way onto her face. Now it was the doctor's turn to laugh.

"Yeah, him too. The stupid git is supposed to be a genius or something." he said, wrapping his arm around his wife's shoulder.

"Have you eaten?" Mary asked, placing her other hand on John's arm, worry flashing in her eyes. John shook his head. The dissolved tension allowed him to feel his own body's needs again, instead of Sherlock's.

He was exhausted. He took a deep breath, and seemed to suck more weariness into his lungs.

"We can go home. He won't be awake for a few hours, and he'll be too weak and drugged to miss us," Mary urged.

John stayed silent, weighing his options. If he stayed, it would be more a maybe minute long conversation with Sherlock, who would be completely out of sorts and probably too weak to talk anyway. Besides, John was so tired he might just fall asleep in his chair and sleep through whatever window to consciousness Sherlock might find, in addition to getting a crick in his neck and a general feeling of misery. Mary was right, as always. He nodded, coming to a decision.

"Okay. Let's go," said John, and rose to his feet with a slight grunt. Mary stayed right next to him, her hands remaining on his hand and arm, supporting him. John paused at the door, taking a good long look at his best friend, a bit of sadness beginning to weigh on him. He didn't want to leave Sherlock to wake to an empty room, but staying here wasn't really an option. His wife tugged light on his arm.

"He'll be fine," she said comfortingly. John nodded assuringly to the both of them before walking out, and gently closed the door behind him. They were almost to the parking lot when Mary suddenly stopped, and John turned with a questioning expression on her face.

"I've got to use the ladies' room," she said with a sheepish smile. John smiled back and kissed her, during which time she passed him the keys.

"Go ahead, I'll be waiting in the car," John said with a tired look, glancing at the parking lot.

"Thanks. It's right over there," she said, pointing him toward their little four-door car. He nodded and took off in that direction, prudently looking both ways for cars as he crossed the street. Mary couldn't resist a little chuckle, he was so hunky, the way he leaned forward slightly as he glanced right and then left, and swung his arms as he walked. He was everything she had ever wanted, and then some.

That was why she had to go back inside.

Mary turned and walked straight back in, making her way up to Sherlock's room. He was still as motionless as a statue, but since they had gone a bit more colour had returned to his face.

"Sherlock." she said loudly. Obediently, the detective began to stir, meaning his eyelids fluttered slightly and his fingertips twitched.

Slowly, lazily, his eyes opened, looking blankly at her. It didn't really look like anybody was home for a while, but after a while his eyes focused on her, and there was a gleam of recognition.

"You don't tell him." Mary stated, as an order, standing stock-still. Sherlock's eyes glazed over a bit, and she feared he'd lose consciousness again, and her opportunity would be missed.

"Sherlock..." she said in a sing-song voice, and she could see him frowning, trying to comprehend.

"You don't tell John." she repeated, trying to beat the message into that brilliant head through the cloud of morphine. He didn't move, too weak to do anything if he wanted to. She moved closer, leaning over him.

"Look at me," she said, and he made eye contact. "Now tell me you're not gonna tell him," she said one last time, her tone being the kind you'd use on a naughty child.

She could she a flash of understanding in the bright eyes, before they closed and he fell under the blanket of drugs again. She stepped back, and hoped that Sherlock would do as she said. It seemed to her that he had understood. Mission accomplished.

He'd always had a soft spot for her, not to mention a lot of respect. She was sure the only other person who had warmed to him so quickly was John. Mary had liked him from the start, before she had even met him, just listening to the few comments John would drop now and then. When she'd pulled her then-fiancee off of him in the restaurant, she couldn't help but notice how calm he was, and she could also see a bit of sadness in those big puppy eyes that John had missed in his anger. When Sherlock told them about how he had been acting under threat, she began to sympathize with him immediately. Her entire life was constantly under threat from Magnussen. It had been for a very long while, and she knew what it was like to have no choice, other than between two evils.

That was what happened when she shot him, after all. What choice did she have?

So from the first day she had liked him, and loved to see him and John enjoy each other's company. They just clicked, into a unique bond that was deep and tender, hidden in glances, gestures and words that only she and a few others could see. Her and Sherlock got on incredibly well too, and she loved him like a brother, because that's what he was to her; she could see his protective glances and affectionate smiles shining out of that sociopath facade.

It was incredible, really, since she had sort of stolen his best friend. Not like he and John didn't spend loads of time together, but they just didn't solidify into the single unit that she knew they were before. Now she had to do this; to protect herself from death and heartbreak, yes, but her main concern was John. He'd lived through the loss of a soul mate before, and it had almost killed him; the unmasking of the lie was just as catastrophic. To put him through both crises at the same time was unthinkable.

"And I really am sorry," she added sadly.

Sherlock deserved none of what he had gone through, what he was going through, and was he was going to go through. But she knew one thing united them, and that was the miracle that was John Hamish Watson. Together they would protect him. Even though Mary sacrificed a friendship with a sweet and charming man, she couldn't let herself regret it. Never look back.

That's exactly what she did, and walked straight out of the hospital to find John waiting in the car for her on the kerb.

"That took a while," he said a bit drily, and released the break, carefully maneuvering out of the parking lot.

"Sorry. Had to take care of business," she said, drawing a small smile from her husband.

It was the truth, after all.


	3. Mostly Just Babbling

_**A/N:** Okay, this is set later that day. I figure John's had all day to eat and have a nap, and then he'd be right back by Sherlock's side to wait until he woke up. Nothing much else to say... Uhhh... All from John's POV. Enjoy. Oh, and once again I know nothing about hospitals or anything so I'm just hoping this sticks._

* * *

John's hand tightened over Sherlock's as his best friend wandered into the land of the living.

"Sherlock?" he said encouragingly, trying to coax those eyes to open wider.

"That's it, I'm right here," he said when Sherlock's eyes scanned the room for - something. A threat, or someone in paritcular? Hard to say.

Sherlock's pupils dilated when they rested on John.

"Mmmnn... J'n." he mumbled weakly. John felt his heart clench at Sherlock's vulnerability.

"How are you feeling?" John asked solemnly. He couldn't resist laughing when even in his near-catatonic state Sherlock managed to roll his eyes, the message clear.

_Do I really need to answer that?_

"Just thought I'd ask," John teased. "You gave us quite a scare," he scolded. Sherlock's shoulders shrugged almost imperceptibly.

_As if I could help it. Not like I planned this._

"Yes, you could have," John said, sitting back and crossing his arms. "What the use of that big brain of yours if you're just going to let yourself get killed by the first idiot who points a gun at you?"

Sherlock glared.

_Did I ask for you to give me marks?_

"I'm your best friend. It's my job," John retorted. He relented a bit when he saw how jaded Sherlock's expression was.

"Hey, cheer up. That was quite a miracle you pulled last night," John said with raised eyebrows. "Speaking of last night," he continued after a pause, "who did this to you?" he said lowly, clenching his fist where Sherlock couldn't see.

Sherlock just looked at him, and John could swear he could see sadness. Mixed with that stubborn resolve that Sherlock had when he decided to do something stupid. John didn't press, Sherlock wasn't in any shape to be interrogated. The detective's eyes roamed the evening-lit room again, before meeting John's.

"Mary," he said, and cleared his throat.

John sighed. He'd ask again later.

"She's at home, resting. She's pregnant, remember?" John said casually. "And, while we're on _that_ subject, they said that was your first word when you woke up. Any reason in particular?" he asked, curiousity nagging at him.

Sherlock paused before shugging again.

"I can hardly be held responsible-" he paused for breath- "for what I did while in shock." he said, weak, but not without his usual debonair style.

Sherlock smiled and slowly took a handful of his blanket and lifted it a few inches. "Look, I've got a blanket," he said hoarsely. John chuckled softly, relieved to see Sherlock was still his same old self.

"You've got to _rest_," John said with a smile and raised eyebrow. "You have a long recovery ahead of you. You lost more than sixty percent of your blood volume," John said in his doctor voice. Sherlock made the face of a grumpy child told to clean his room, pouty and defiant.

"Don't give me that," John said, with the voice of a mother who's been through this routine a thousand times. "You slip up, you pay the price," John said mercilessly. Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"Don't worry," John said with a smile. "I brought you something to pass the time," he said, and showed Sherlock a book in his hand.

_Comets, Stars, the Moon, and Mars_ by Douglas Florian.

Sherlock tried to set the thing on fire with his eyes.

"It includes pluto, so that's nice," John said, totally serious. "And I also brought you some other things too," he continued, putting some other things on Sherlock's lap. His sudoku cube, mp3 player, and the skull, complete with deerstalker.

"So you'd have someone to talk to all the time," John said wryly, setting it on the table near the window. Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

"Thanks," he said sarcastically, but his eyes genuinely expressed the word.

"Yep," John said, matter-of-fact. "But you really do need to go back to sleep. The more you sleep, the quicker you recover," John said, dangling the metaphorical carrot in front of his nose.

Already Sherlock had been having trouble staying awake, his eyes blinking slowly.

"It's alright, I'll stay here the rest of the day," he said when Sherlock's eyes asked a question. "I've got to go to work tomorrow, Monday, but I've set up a sort of shift so there'll be someone here with you most of the time," John said assuringly, as Sherlock's eyes eased shut.

"I don't need to be babysat," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"You've done a singularly lousy job of proving that over the last 48 hours," John snapped, still angry with him over his 'undercover' operation. Sherlock just snorted derisively, his eyelids fluttering before going still.

John lingered in the hospital room, waiting as the patch of sunlight moved farther and farther up the wall with the setting sun.

The band on Sherlock's arm, the IV, all the monitors and equipment hooked up to him, made John feel angry. Who would dare? Well, a lot of people. But no one had ever succeeded in harming him before. Other than Moriarty.

Sherlock was like the essence of life, and to see him so still, stagnant, was just wrong. And it would be months before it was set right. John genuinely hoped Sherlock wouldn't go mad, or do something stupid. The pale face was so peaceful, yet disturbing. Sherlock couldn't stop moving, even in his sleep. He would usually mumble and constantly shift, unable to hold still. And now, he lay still as a statue, the only evidence of life being the soft expanding of his ribcage and the steady beep of the heart monitor. A voice cut in on his thoughts.

"John?" Mary asked, standing in the doorway.

"Hmm?" John said, frowning repeatedly, realizing he had dozed off. The room was completely dark now.

"Come on, let's get you home." Mary said, and gave him a hand up.

"Thanks," John said gratefully. Sherlock didn't move a muscle, still fast asleep, loopy from the pain killers.

"He doing alright?" Mary asked, steering him to the door. John nodded, wide awake now.

"He's a bit disoriented, but that's to be expected. And he's still a sarcastic little know-it-all," John added with a chuckle. "But he won't tell me who it was," he continued after a beat, solemn.

"It might just be the drugs," Mary offered. "I bet he'll tell you when he's feeling better," she promised. John nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, probably. Have you eaten dinner?" he asked, feeling a pang of hunger in his stomach.

"Not with you," Mary repsonded with a wry grin, hugging his arm as they walked. A warmth spread in his chest.

"Alright, where to?" John asked as they descended the stairs.

"What about that nice restaurant on Marylebone Street?" she offered in an airy voice. John made a blank face.

"No," he said with finality. Mary laughed.

"Sherlock sort of ruined that place for me."


	4. Showtime

_A/N: Hello my lovelies! Wow, I've got a ton of followers now. That means people actually like this. It means people are going read this chapter. Holy crud, man. That's insane. _

_Anyway, this chapter is kind of filling in all the bits around the scene in Lenister Gardens. I'll do the scene in 221b next, but I didn't do it here because I thought it would be a bit too long. This is from Sherlock and John's POV, goes back and forth several times. Weird, because I didn't plan it that way at all. Oh well. Don't worry Mary-lovers, there will probably be several chapters in the future focusing entirely on her. But in the meantime, enjoy, and don't forget to leave a review for me! ^^_

* * *

The sun was leaning in close for a kiss with the horizon, and there was a zephyr playfully dancing through a large window into the cozy hospital room, whispering secrets to anyone foolish enough to gossip with it. The small breeze mischievously wiggled the stems of the flowers and made the blankets and sheets hanging off the bed do a calm waltz.

It was at aforementioned window that a certain consulting detective stood, his IV and pressure cuff still hooked up to him. It had been a week, exactly a week since -

Sherlock grunted in pain slightly, and tried not to double over. He looked longingly back at the morphine pump by his bed for a moment before shaking his head slightly and turning away.

He carefully removed the cuff and IV, and then threw one leg out the window, and began his descent.

It was time. Time for him to fix this. Or, break it, however you wanted to look at it.

* * *

Though the smell of tobacco and whatever-horrific-experiment-Sherlock-was-running-this-week usually calmed John like nothing else, right now it was turning his stomach, like it did before he'd gotten used to the peculiar olfactory sensation.

Sherlock was missing. Gone. Just got up and went. Left his hotel room without a trace.

Who does that?!

Well, the answer is obvious at this point.

His old chair was slightly dusty from sitting wherever Sherlock had hidden it before, away from Mrs. Hudson's all powerful featherduster. Add that to the growing list of weird-even-for-Sherlock things going on around here.

And now his mobile was ringing in his hand; who else could it be but Sherlock?

John shoved back the two halves of his mind (One wanting to murder Sherlock for being so reckless, the other to have a breakdown because how could Sherlock be so reckless?) and walked out into the hall, answering his phone.

"Sherlock," he said, and somehow all the anguish, all the worrying and the rage and the you-are-an-idiot all got compressed into that one word, those two syllables.

* * *

"John," Sherlock said, and somehow all the pain, all the heartbreak and the helplessness and the guilt got left out of that one word, that one syllable, leaving it cold and dry. "No time for medical lectures, this is important," he said commandingly, cutting off whatever John had started to say. "I need you to do exactly as I say,"

"Sherlock, I don't _care_ how important this case is. If you do not go back to the hospital _right now_, you will die," hissed his best friend.

"Oh _please_, I'm healthier than you give me credit for," Sherlock shot back automatically, biting back a wheeze.

"I wasn't talking about blood loss. I meant that I am going to kill you myself," John said coldly. Sherlock snorted derisively.

"All threats of those kind are void, and we both know it," Sherlock said, somehow warm and harsh at the same time. "I need your help. Now _please_, follow my instructions," he said, and gave out a set of commands, all detailed but simple.

"And when you finish, call me back and I'll tell you where to go from there," he finished, and then hung up, leaving no room for argument.

He'd procured everything necessary for his little show; a high-power projector (set up in the house across the street, ready to go), and a wheelchair and IV drip, which is where he had been sitting for that whole conversation, and a couple of bluetooths. The materials had been produced by various people who owed him favors, and put in place by his homeless network, which was now being led by Billy, his favourite hobo.

Sherlock wanted so badly to just fall asleep and stop being in so much pain, (as in I-might-die-from-**_pain_** kind of pain) but there wasn't time. He only had so many more minutes before he really would drop, and possibly die. Probably not, but probability is no guarantee. Hopefully not.

* * *

John stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, wearing his coat with the biggest collar. He really hoped he wasn't going to impersonate Sherlock, because last time someone thought he was Sherlock, things went south.

He went to recent calls and selected the one he needed (good thing that was one of the few things he knew how to do on this stupid smart phone), pressed the green button, and put the device to his ear.

"Yep," Sherlock said casually, answering.

"Alright, I did what you asked," John said in that quiet, (more than) slightly dangerous voice of his when he was on the verge of some kind of blowup.

"Excellent," Sherlock said approvingly. "Come quickly, and tell no one," Sherlock continued, and gave an address.

"Sherlock," John said quickly before the detective could hang up on him. "Just promise me, promise me once whatever stupid shenanigan you have planned is over tonight, and it _will_ be over tonight, that you will go back to the hospital. And remember that if you don't, I will drag you and your precious brain over there myself, possibly separately," he said coldly.

"Of course," the younger man said with an almost audible shrug. "Won't take more than a couple of hours. See you there."

Then the call was ended, and John tried not to smash it against the nearest solid object. Multiple times.

It didn't take him long to find the right house, and he pushed open the door to the sound of the Underground rumbling just beneath them.

"Nice place," John said caustically, looking around for Sherlock. There he was, to his far right, seated in a wheelchair. Suddenly John found himself trying to take Sherlock's pulse; funny, he didn't even remember walking over here. He must have ran. Sherlock weakly warded him off with a raised hand.

"Focus, John," the detective scolded, and pulled himself to his feet, slowly. John was so torn between helping him up and shoving him back down that he didn't do anything.

"Now," Sherlock said, a bit breathlessly, "Time for the plot twist," he said, and gestured for John to sit in the chair.

"I don't know if you've noticed, Sherlock, but I'm not the one who needs that," John replied drily to the unspoken command.

"_Sit_." Sherlock ordered, and John sighed loudly. The sooner Sherlock got what he wanted, the sooner they could get him back into medical care. He made a face but went and sat, then cocked his head at Sherlock.

"Happy? Can we go now?" John snapped. Sherlock sighed as well, and reached for John's head with both hands.

"Sherlock, what are you - _stop_!" John squeaked, as Sherlock completely ruined his nicely groomed hair, making it stick up in all directions. "What was even the _purpose_ of that?" he said angrily.

"Costume," Sherlock replied, as if it was all-so-obvious, and popped up the collar of John's coat.

"Oh. Great," John moaned. "If anyone aims a weapon at me -"

"Don't worry, I'm confident she won't fire," Sherlock assured him. John rolled his eyes.

"How comforting," he drawled. "Why are we even here?" he demanded.

"I made a promise, one that I do not intend to break," Sherlock said solemnly.

"Oh, how _sweet_," John threw back. "Couldn't it have waited until _after_ you were released from the hospital?"

Sherlock's uncharacteristic patience suddenly gave way a little. "Do you want to know who shot me or not?" he snapped wearily.

"What?" John blurted, taken off guard.

"That's why we're here."

"And you couldn't have just _told_ me _before_?" John asked, though not as harsh as before. "You're risking your life for a sodding _dramatic payoff_. You're smarter than this."

"So I thought," Sherlock replied sadly. "But this case is more important than me."

"Whose case?" John asked. "Lady Eva's?"

Sherlock's head suddenly snapped a little to the right as he listened to the device in his ear.

"Here," he said suddenly, and put a matching earpiece in the army doctor's ear. "Just sit still and listen," he instructed, and started to move away, down the other side of the corridor.

"Sherlock, you never said," John insisted, making Sherlock turn for a moment. "Whose case?"

Sherlock paused for a moment before replying, and John couldn't read his face.

"Yours."

* * *

_Mary Watson is not Mary Watson. _

_Mary Watson is not Mary Watson._

The maddening mantra played in John's head over and over and over as the nondescript cab carried them closer to Baker Street, the place where this had all started.

And where something, though he wasn't sure what, was going to end.

The interior of the vehicle was tense, almost unbearably so. Sherlock still sat so proud and tall, so very British, but John could see jaded lines forming around his eyes and mouth. The day couldn't, _could not_ get any worse.

John was mute. Ever since Mary had walked into that hallway, he'd been struck dumb.

The feeling was indescribable. Like perhaps he was an unfeeling dam that was about to be torn apart by dark, swirling waters. Or maybe he was bleeding to death and was happily doing backstrokes in his own blood. Wasn't that just funny.

The cab arrived at the all-too-familiar sidewalk, were '_Speedy's'_ was happily printed on the awning near the door they were headed for.

Sherlock was the one who unlocked and opened the door, because John was too busy looking wordlessly at his wife.

His 'wife.'

'His' wife.

'His wife.'

John realized he was being herded through the door, up the stairs, into the old sitting room.

So was _she_.

Things were going to get ugly.

If he had anything to say about it.

And oh, he had quite a lot to say.


	5. New Way to Bleed

_**A/N:** This is loooong. Expanding the scene at 221b where Mary is confronted. It starts in an omniscient third person narrative. Be warned, I somehow ended up sounding like Lemony Snicket. Which is awesome, but considering it was entirely unplanned, I'm not sure how to feel about it. Then it goes through the perspective of all the characters, telling events. _

_If angst isn't your cup of tea, skip this one (or find a different fandom)._

* * *

221B Baker Street had never been a peaceful place, _per se_. Well, except for the two years it was uninhabited, but then it was too empty and silent to bring peace to anyone. It was a place of adventure, where you could normally find crazy experiments, impossible situations, and people from the lowest of the low to the greatest of the great, all jumbled together in a singular goulash of mischief. Let it not be said that it was ever a _boring_ place.

But tonight it was a place of turmoil.

And not just any kind of suffering, just your run-of-the-mill bad day. No; this flat, this room, was its own miniature Hell.

Who can say who was right, and who was wrong? For we so often stumble in life not because we deny what we know is right, but when we don't know what's right and wrong anymore.

However, we do know who was the truly innocent one in the room.

John Hamish Watson.

He sat in the chair, that chair where he sat that very first day, the day the direction of his life did an about-face, and then began to do a salsa steadily in the direction of the insane. He understood now, why the chair had miraculously reappeared. Even now he didn't fully understand how it had gotten moved without Mrs. Hudson's knowledge. But Sherlock knew. He always knew. As a doctor he was sworn to never harm anyone, but he'd broken that oath many times before and he was fully ready to do it again. He knew if he lost his temper, it wasn't outside the realm of possibility that he would actually kill somebody. Any one of the three people in the room were equally eligible.

Across from him, we can find a totally different actor in this tragic drama; one might consider him the protagonist, though that issue is still a subject of discord among certain members of the group known as The Empty Hearse.

Sherlock Holmes.

He also was in his customary spot near the fireplace. But he was not his customary self. His face was pale, paler than usual, paler than could be healthy for anyone. If one looks closely, one can see the twitches of pain, the occasional grimace. At least, it is assumed pain is causing the twitching. However, we have found no evidence to the contrary. If you do, please contact us immediately. Poor Sherlock was trying with everything he had in him to make this work, to save his two closest friends from each other. So far, it wasn't going too well.

Finally, we come to the third inhabitant of the room, and by all accounts, she was the most guilty one of all.

And we don't actually know what _her_ name is. Once again, please contact us if you find out.

This woman, who had once brought immeasurable joy and comfort to the two men next to her, had effectively neutralized any positive effect she may have ever had in one fell swoop, one misstep. If it weren't for her extensive training, she would be nothing but a puddle of tears on the floor. Even now, her breath would hitch or her eyes wold become glassy before she regained control. Mistake or no mistake, she was a strong one. Stronger than anyone had reckoned on, not even the resident genius on her left.

The words that were said, the words were nothing. It didn't matter. The damage had been done, this happy family was burning to the ground. For an eternity unto itself, those three sat together. Each one a step away from madness. The real mystery lies in the following question.

Which one was suffering the most? Which was the most broken, which one would you say is in the most pain?

Around and around they went on their demented carousel, the room being almost the worst kind of fight. The near silent one, where everyone feels a turning in their stomach, every word is a step on a minefield, and you know this moment, right here, right now, will affect you for the rest of your life.

The spell was broken (or a spell was cast, depending on how you looked at it) when the amount of people in the room fluctuated, going upwards. All three of them woke, as if from a dream... or maybe like when you walk out of a room that smells really really bad and then you remember that the whole world doesn't reek. Or at least, not to our knowledge.

* * *

Sherlock had tried to make John listen. To understand. He knew it would take time. After all, it had taken John a while to forgive _him_. But he feared that despite all he had done, it wouldn't be enough.

Dismay clawed at his insides (or was that the gunshot wound?).

He hated the fact that John was lied to, his own deception included. But those two biggest lies, were completely necessary, in his mind.

Necessary evils.

Mycroft had said Magnuessen was a necessary evil, but Sherlock didn't know in what universe a man like that could possibly be necessary. The evil part, however, was disputed by no one, thankfully.

Sherlock had been so lonely over the past month, though Jeanine had helped in part. (Yes, of course he enjoyed her company. No, there was no way he was going to marry her.) But he'd been a bit lost, always craving the times when John would join him on cases or drop by for a visit. When he'd been working to dismantle Moriarty's network, he'd always assumed he'd be able to return to the life he had left. To the person he had left. Never did it occur to him that he wouldn't have John to himself.

John was so happy with Mary. He positively glowed around her. How could Sherlock deny him that? And he loved Mary too. (Everyone knew he was capable of that verb now. No use denying it.) He had made a vow to do everything he could to make sure they lived, well, happily ever after, if he could be pardoned the cliche term. Mentally, he'd given John up. Like he'd done when Mycroft left for Uni. He'd given up the claims he had, and resigned himself to the loss.

He may not have John anymore. But he'd make sure he had a happy life.

What Mary had done, to John, to him, was horrible. Horrible, but her best option. Sherlock had forgiven her already. Back in the hospital he turned down his morphine tap, and considered. Nowhere in his heart did he have the cruelty or hypocrisy to condemn her. It was then that he decided on this plan. Rubbish plan, he thought as he almost passed out again.

Mary was the defendant, Sherlock was the defending attorney, and John was the prosecutor, judge, and jury.

He tried one more time before resting his case.

"Trust Mary," he commanded, holding onto John for dear life, or maybe just for a vertical position.

"But she shot you," John argued, not openly angry. It was hard to interpret him right now.

Sherlock made a face. Good point. "Mixed messages, I grant you-" he suddenly broke off, the searing feeling in his chest becoming too much for him.

The world became nothing but a blur of pain of all kinds from then on out.

* * *

John stood over Sherlock, dumbfounded. He just didn't know what to do. How he should react. He was blank.

What was he supposed to do? His best friend was whimpering in pain on the floor, possibly dying. His wife was actually an assassin and had shot his best friend. And for some reason his best friend wanted him to trust the woman who had lied for her own purposes.

It wasn't like his heart was breaking or anything. It was like someone had sliced him open and removed it.

Sherlock was lifted onto a stretcher. The mask over his face clouded more than usual when he cried out.

Suddenly, some part of John's brain responded to the stimulus. The Hippocratic Oath had been reinstated. He stayed nearby, helping best he could to get Sherlock down the stairs. Several times they jolted the injured man, inciting a cry of pain that became less and less restrained.

He followed the EMTs out of the flat, once again claiming family privileges and climbing into the ambulance with them. Sherlock was fading quickly, barely conscious. His face was permanently scrunched up in agony, his fists clenched so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Sherlock. Hold on, we're going to the hospital. You'll be fine," John told him calmly.

He took Sherlock's hand in his, and he got a weak squeeze in return. He couldn't believe he let this happen. He should have hauled Sherlock's sorry rear back to the hospital as soon as he clapped eyes on him. He'd been too blinded by his own pain to see how much pain Sherlock was suppressing. Sherlock could die. Again.

He held Sherlock's hand until he fell unconscious. John stared vacantly at Sherlock's face, now gone still and silent. Here they were again, rushing to the hospital. How John wished all of this would stop. It was a nightmare. His worst fears come to life. But he'd always been too British. He had to soldier on, for Sherlock if no one else.

It was then that it truly hit John. The fact that Sherlock had done this for him. And for her, too. He cared enough about their happiness, about their marriage, that he had gravely jeopardized himself. Just for this.

John clenched his jaw. Sherlock was dying (yes, he was dying again) for nothing. There was no way John would ever speak to her again.

He couldn't bear to think about the baby.

The ambulance came to a rough stop, and Sherlock was, for the second time, rushed off an operating room, where the same doctors would try to pull him back from the brink of the grave.

Without having to be told, John wandered off to a waiting room. He didn't even have the energy to worry. He was sure if someone came and told him, right then, that Sherlock was finally dead, he wouldn't bat an eye.

He sat quietly in a chair, looking brokenly at the floor. Someone eventually approached him, giving him news. Yes, Sherlock was okay. Yes, his heart had stopped again and had needed to be resuscitated. Yes, he was in the same room.

The close shave hardly fazed him, and he stumbled along the corridor to that room with the 221 plaque. John pushed the door open, and saw the same sight. Sherlock, so still and cold, breathing shallowly. Back to square one.

John pulled a chair close and sat, looking at his best friend, lost. He was partly glad Sherlock was unconscious.

"What am I supposed to do, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice small.

What could he do? His entire life had been shattered. Sherlock was here, barely alive. He didn't want to even think about his wife, or the child developing inside of her. His child. The assassin's child. Their child.

There was no haven to run to.

"What... Am I... Supposed... To do?" he repeated, his voice becoming hoarse.

Sherlock remained silent, still as the grave.

"The one time you can't tell me," John said bitterly.

Why did this have to happen to him, of all people? Why was he continually lied to? Why did everyone have to manipulate him?

This was a whole new level of betrayal, a whole new way to bleed.

The numbness suddenly fell away. His sorrow became raw and exposed.

Dear God, the anguish. It physically hurt.

He doubled over, and let his head rest on Sherlock's body.

John wept.

* * *

Mrs. John Watson remained frozen where she had been standing, actually feeling as if someone had impaled her.

She had known it would hurt. But there was no way for her to have prepared for this, this feeling of being so distraught she couldn't shed a tear. Every time she allowed herself to feel her pain, it was like the grief bypassed her tear ducts and went straight to her stomach, making it turn and twist.

She would never forget the way John had looked at her, like she was his mortal enemy. Like he hated her, like he never wanted to look at her again. He had loved her, she knew that. That was the worst part. She had to use past tense.

Quietly, she bowed her head and let herself out.

Her feet moved on their own, carrying her in the general direction of home.

How could she even express this, this feeling like there was a black hole inside her? At any moment she might be crushed to pieces and pulled inside.

John had been such a miracle. And she'd been so alone.

No friends, no family, she had been barely living, trying to escape the shadow of her past. She acquired friends for her own safety. There was a permanent gap between her and ordinary people (in no way was it arrogant of her to claim herself as extraordinary).

Then he came, out of nowhere.

John was a former soldier, and his battleground had been in the deserts of Afghanistan as well as the heart of London. He knew. He understood. He wasn't ordinary either. And he had been unattached, like her. Like her in almost every particular.

She hadn't planned on falling in love. It just happened. She had began to hope that she could have a normal, happy life with the man of her dreams.

But now that dream was gone.

She put a hand over her belly. It wasn't like it was half a century ago, when a single woman carrying a child might as well sign her life away right then and there. But how could she just carry on? John was her whole world. Was.

She stumbled, and sighed, then hailed a cab for herself the next time one appeared.

"You okay?" the cabbie asked, seeing her face, drawn with heavy cares.

"Just drive," she snapped wearily. He thankfully acquiesced, turning his eyes away from the rearview mirror and onto the road.

She watched her corner of the world go by, terrified. What would she do now? Just pick up and leave? But where could she go?

Her breathing had never quite gotten back to normal, not since that moment when Sherlock had turned on the lights back at Lenister Gardens. That initial jolt of horror still hadn't left her. The sick feeling of dread ruled her.

She arrived at her empty suburb home, and she stared at it blankly through the window, motionless.

"Ma'am?" the cabby asked hesitantly. She jumped a bit, and hurriedly paid her fare before getting out. She forced herself to go on autopilot, and let herself in and went into her room, changed into pajamas and crawled under the covers.

All in all, she thought she did fairly well. She hadn't started sobbing or outright begged for mercy.

Though God knew she wanted to.

The anguish she felt churning inside made her physically sick. Every time she remembered John's expression, she would almost gag. Once or twice, her mind showed her an image of Sherlock, gasping in pain on the floor. That hurt too, though not as much. She couldn't let herself regret it. Once you let regret in, it destroys you. She'd learned that a long time ago.

She clutched her belly. What would become of the child inside?

Mrs. John Watson lay wide awake in the dark, unable to shed a tear.

* * *

_**A/N:** Holy crud that was long. I wasn't satisfied with the previous chapter, but I like this one._

_The main goal of this piece is pain. If you didn't feel pain, I failed. I wanted to portray how miserable this was for every single character. I teared up a bit writing it. You may say I overused the angst, but in my opinion, if anything I underused it. This is one of the most heartbreaking scenarios in the whole series._

_Anyway, thanks for reading. Please, leave review! I have a ton of followers on this story, so I know people are reading it. They're just not reviewing. *narrows eyes* Yeah, you know who you are. I hope you feel terrible._


	6. The Anger of a Patient Man

_**A/N:** Hey folks. This is a long 'un too. And again, I accidentally turned into Lemony Snicket. Dunno how that keeps happening. Sorry._

_Anyway, it starts in omniscient third person like last time, and then switches from John's, to Mary's, to Mrs. Hudson's POV. _

_Still heapin' on the angst. For anyone who knows what it's like to be Mary, you know how much this sucks for her. That helpless feeling. Poor Mary. _

_Hope you enjoy! Please, leave reviews! :)_

* * *

Mornings are strange things. For some reason, they make people especially chipper or incredibly cross. There is no middle ground. Just as a random, nonspecific example, say there was a hospital room, with an army doctor, a consulting detective, and a nurse.

The nurse would be overly bubbly, chattering in a voice that sounds like she took helium instead of coffee this morning, and smiling so much it would seem her face muscles were on steroids. No one likes those kinds of people, but those people seem to like everyone else. To everyone else's dismay.

The army doctor, woken by the unwanted nurse, would be grumpy and brooding, and stay quiet, occasionally muttering terse responses that, on face value, are polite. No one likes those people either, but at least they have the decency to dislike everyone back.

And the consulting detective would just lay there as if he'd almost bled to death last night and had needed to be resuscitated. This is because he almost bled to death last night and needed to be resuscitated. People tend to like or dislike these people depending on the situation.

For example, you might like a very still and near-comatose person if they were your child who had been on hyperdrive for the last six hours, or if you were stranded in the arctic and you were very hungry. You would not, however, like for a person like that to be laying in the way of your scooter as you tried to escape a gang of angry mimes, or if they were sitting across from you on a date and refused to make conversation or pay the bill.

It's impossible to say if these people like or dislike everyone else, since they don't tend to talk much.

Mornings. You're either annoyingly happy, annoyingly sulky, or just happily sleeping through the entire ordeal.

"How interesting," John said drily in response to a pause in the constant noise coming from the nurse, who smiled and kept talking to him, even as she walked out of the door and closed it behind her and walked away. John wondered if employees were still screened for mental instability these days.

He'd fallen asleep there in the hospital room, his cheek against Sherlock's stomach, making him rise and fall in rhythm with Sherlock's lung capacity. As soon as the nurse had entered, he quickly rubbed away the salt trails on his face and stretched, already feeling a painful knot throbbing in the back of his neck and lower back.

Now that he was alone again, he looked at his best friend's expressionless face. A pang ran him through the heart, making him frown momentarily.

"Morning," he said thickly to Sherlock. There was no response. John sighed and stretched again, and then settled back into the chair. Good thing it was a weekend, or he would have missed work, he thought as he looked at the clock.

He knew he was stalling from thinking about... the elephant in the room.

"So, what shall I do today, Sherlock?" he asked in a dead voice, looking at his motionless companion. He didn't want to go home. _She_ might be there. Another pang. But he had to go home sometime. There was no getting out of it.

Just as he decided on a course of action and began to rise from the chair, Sherlock's breathing changed, and his eyelids cracked open wearily.

"Hey there," John said, forcing himself to sound kind. Right now, he felt more like giving up and becoming a lethargic, bitter man, but that wasn't an option. Sherlock's eyes slowly focused on him, glinting in recognition. For once, John was happy that Sherlock was under the influence of drugs. The agony from last night was no longer in those green-blues, chased away by the morphine being pumped into his bloodstream.

John could see the muscles in Sherlock's neck straining, and two dark brows came together, as the detective tried to make a sound.

"Shh," John rebuked gently. "Wait until you feel better," he advised, his tone cold. Sherlock, as per usual, didn't listen, and produced a small noise.

"M'ry," he slurred, eyes blinking lazily. John stiffened.

"Who?" he asked icily.

Something akin to despair and grief flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and he frowned weakly before being pulled back under. His face relaxed, and his breathing evened out. John managed to keep himself from smashing a vase or something, and got up with carefully controlled, suppressed, stiff movements.

Time to go home.

* * *

The woman known as Mary Watson was having bad dreams.

Sick dreams, dreams where she couldn't do anything, forced to endure it all with moving a muscle.

She woke up as if someone was lifting a two-ton weight off her chest, and lay stiff, her limbs tense to the point of cramps.

There were sounds. Someone was in the house.

She rolled over quickly, her eyes locking onto the potential threat.

John.

John was here.

Mary felt hopeful and hurt and afraid and angry and sad all at once. A cocktail of emotions, swirling inside her hormonally charged body.

"John?" she mumbled tentatively.

He didn't turn, give any sign that he had heard her. She felt her stomach turn, and she realized she was still under the same curse from last night. Then she saw what he was doing.

He was packing.

John was going through the dresser, and taking out everything that was his, and stuffing it in a tote bag next to him. Mary felt her heart leap in her throat as she watched. She didn't speak again, didn't do anything. Just watched, knowing there was nothing she could do or say, not now. John's face was made of stone, and she knew it would be impossible to change him back. She was Medusa.

Every time John shoved his fistful of clothes into the bag, it felt like a punch to her stomach.

But she watched.

For the next hour, she sat motionlessly, watching as her husband gathered his things and disappeared occasionally to load them into the car.

As he carried out a haphazard stack of items, consisting of a pile of shoes atop is laptop, he dropped three shoes. He cursed and stood for a moment, trying to figure out how to solve the problem. Without thinking, Mary quickly rose and picked them up, and placed them atop his makeshift tower. For the briefest moment, their eyes met, and Mary never felt so chilled.

His eyes had no warmth, nothing in them. Just ice. The split-second eternity ended, and John focused his eyes past her, as if she was invisible, and walked forward. Mary almost doubled over because of the pain in her stomach, and stepped out of his way.

She stood at the window and watched as he drove away.

Mary turned around and looked at the empty house. He had taken hardly anything, only the items that were his and his only; mostly clothes and other such personal items. Everything else stayed. She went and laid back down in bed, and stared vacantly at the wall. She hadn't eaten anything. She wasn't hungry, not even remotely close to being hungry. But her nurse-mind told her she needed to eat, and not for her sake. So Mary rose again, and made herself a meager breakfast of fruit and dry toast.

As she was finishing it, she heard the engine of a car, their car, in front of the house. She felt a cruel burst of hope, but didn't move. The door opened, and she watched as John entered. He still didn't look at her, just kept his eyes straight ahead. Mary's heart was beating wildly.

He went over to the counter and laid down the keys, and then turned and left. Bound by fearful curiosity, she went over to the curtains and peeked through. She watched, as John hailed a cab and then rode away.

Mary understood.

She looked back at the keys on the counter, and understood.

Even when he was furious, even when he was destroyed, even when he refused to look at her...

Good John. Righteous John, chivalrous John. Who wouldn't leave a pregnant woman without a form of transportation or any other necessities.

John.

Mary had never wished she could weep so badly.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked nervously as John came down to get another armful of things to take up to his room.

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here," John replied curtly, and turned around and left, the soft tap of his shoes audible on the steps. Mrs. Hudson stood nervously in the sitting room, and waited until he came back.

"But what about Mary? She needs you," Mrs. Hudson asked sadly, fearfully, laying a hand on his arm. John turned to stone.

"Who?" he asked, in an automated voice.

The landlady gasped but understood, and backed off, letting him continue. When he came back down again, she had a tray ready for him, with tea and crumpets.

"Here," she said kindly, setting it on the table next to John's chair.

John sighed where he stood in the doorway, and shook his head.

"Sorry, not hungry," he replied bluntly. "I'm going out," he stated, and turned and did just that.

Mrs. Hudson frowned sadly, but took the tray to the kitchen. As she tidied the flat, she shed a tear or two for her surrogate children. For poor Sherlock, in the hospital. For Mary, and though she didn't understand why, she knew it must be hard for the woman, especially when she was expecting. And for John, who was caught in the middle.

She shed a few more when John came back after nightfall, reeking of brandy.


	7. A Friend in Need

_**A/N**: Hey guys. Sorry I took so long in updating, I meant to do this waayyy earlier. Today my goal was to get this chapter posted. As in, this equated to productivity for me. sad, right?_

_Anyway, this chapter is weird. It's pretty much all omniscient third person, hopping around POVs as I am suited, which is quite a lot. Sorry._

_And just in case this is a problem for anybody, there's a scene at a bar. With beer, and people drinking it. I doubt anyone cares, but ya know. Just in case._

_By the way, you may have noticed that these oneshots, so far, have been very close together, chronologically speaking. So I'm going to start skipping time, to show highlights, instead of the play-by-play I've been doing. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day,_  
_ or like vinegar poured on a wound,_  
_ is one who sings songs to a heavy heart._

_Proverbs 25:20_

* * *

There's an old saying you've probably heard - 'a friend in need is a friend indeed.' It's a weird little phrase, since most people don't really think about what they're saying. When people say it, they mean 'a friend in need is a person who is truly your friend and you should help them.' As if, somehow, the fact that they need help makes them 'more' your friend. Which makes no sense, for one. What about the person's situation makes them more or less your friend? The whole point of friendship is that you stick together, no matter what happens. It's a counterproductive saying, really.

But people say it anyway, and they usually mean well.

"Hey, I heard about Sherlock," Lestrade said worriedly. John sighed, no doubt creating a ton of feedback.

"Yeah, he's back in the hospital," John replied, his tone empty. He sat back in his chair, glancing at the clock on the wall of his office. A splitting headache was screaming in his temples, and he rubbed them vigourously. It was not fun to work with a hangover. It had been an honest accident; but he wouldn't ever walk into a pub with such a detached attitude ever again.

"He okay?" asked the DI.

"Yeah. He basically bled to death, but they were able to revive him."

There was some swearing, and for some strange reason it pulled up one corner of his mouth.

"Where'd you find him?" Lestrade seemed to have a plethora of questions in his artillery.

"He found me, I guess. Called me," John explained.

"What was he doing?! I swear, sometimes I think I'm way smarter than he is," the inspector exclaimed, and John could imagine a hand running through the grey hair.

"Oh, you know how he is. Just - being Sherlock," John answered, and his voice sounded dead, even to him. Lestrade finally picked up on the fact that something was up.

"Hey mate, you alright?" he asked. The artillery was very well stocked.

"Yeah. Just - tired."

"Sherlock does that to you. Want to go for drinks later?"

"As long as they're not the alcoholic kind," John replied drily. He would say no, but he didn't want to indicate anything was actually wrong. Then he'd get pity, questions, well-meaning meddling. The last thing he needed right now.

Lestrade laughed good-naturedly. "I get it. I can't bail you out if I'm in there with you, huh?" he joked. John flinched at the memory. "I'll call you when I get off," the DI promised.

"Yeah, great," John replied with a detached tone. They both went through their "uh-huh bye" routines and then hung up.

John sat back, and glanced at the clock again. It was only halfway through the day, and he already felt like he'd been working for a week straight. His temples began to throb with renewed vigour, and he just gave in. It didn't take long for him to let the appropriate people know that he wasn't feeling well and was going to leave early.

The image of Sherlock, cold and still in the hospital bed, pressed into his mind, in almost the same way his mild hangover did. He had to go and check on the detective. He'd neglected him for a month and in the space of twenty-four hours after being reunited (in a drug den!), had seen his best friend high as a kite, threatened by a man who was apparently 'the most dangerous man they had ever encountered' (whatever happened to Moriarty, who strapped John to a bomb and forced Sherlock to fake his own suicide?), and then get shot and survive by the skin of his teeth.

No way he would leave him on his own that long ever again.

* * *

Sherlock felt - heavy. Or impossibly light. He couldn't decide which.

There was a presence next to him - a good kind, the kind you feel when you fall asleep in the sunshine or when you're home alone and you know there's a dog guarding the house.

Curious, he put forth an effort to pull his eyelids open.

Not enough. He tried harder.

Ah, light.

_Blinding light._

He squinted, and after a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the room.

It was midday, and there was a dramatic increase in the amount of flowers and get-well cards in his room. There was even a balloon. He scowled at the balloon.

Then he saw John, who was in the chair next to his bed. Fast asleep, it seemed, his legs and arms crossed, head lolling to the side in a chiropractor-friendly position.

Sherlock tried to move, and his fingertips twitched, and his breathing pace fluctuated, and his head moved ever so slightly to the right.

"J... J... John." he said, weak and faint. The army doctor didn't stir.

"John," he repeated, and cleared his throat, proud of his commanding tone, slightly louder than before.

He felt bad a second later when John flinched in shock, and his eyes snapped open, looking for the source of the sound.

"John," Sherlock said again, this time he utilized his friend's name as a greeting, an amicable and gentle one.

Two pairs of eyes met, and something very strange happened. Because although their situations were radically different, and their souls were afflicted by different wounds, they looked at each other the very same way.

There was guilt, weariness, pity. Affection, worry, sadness. Pain, loneliness. And the effort to hide all of that and appear cheerful. Unscathed.

"You're looking better," John said approvingly, and yawned.

"You're not," Sherlock said bluntly, noticing the exaggerated lines around John's eyes and in between his eyebrows.

There was a moment of silence, and another one of those inexplicable looks.

"I'm fine, just had a bit of a lapse of judgement last night," John replied casually, though he didn't know why he was explaining. Sherlock probably had deduced everything, from the type of beer he had to the bartender's love life from a glance at his shirt collar or something.

"What kind of - lapse in judgement?" Sherlock asked murmured innocently, his eyelids already becoming heavy.

John blinked in surprise. Oh, right, the morphine. That would cause an issue. Bad news for brainwork.

"Rest, Sherlock," he urged, seeing his best friend's struggle to stay awake. "It's okay. Just let go," he said softly, placing his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyes eased closed, and his breaths came slower and deeper. Asleep. The elephant in the room had been successfully avoided.

John patted his hand, then stretched, _wow_ he was making a lot of poor decisions concerning his spinal cord lately.

Just then his phone vibrated. Upon a glance he found it was a text from Lestrade, letting him know what pub to meet at. John sighed heavily, he didn't really want to go. But he supposed he owed it to the DI, who had been there for him and Sherlock countless times.

He picked up his coat off the back of the chair and headed to the door, feeling dead on his feet.

Strangely enough, his feet and his heart had something in common.

* * *

An army doctor and a detective inspector are sitting at a bar.

The DI says to the army doctor, "Why the long face?"

The army doctor says to the DI, "If you ever say that again, I'm going to do things to you that I won't say in front witnesses."

Lestrade laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. "You've been hanging around Sherlock too long," he joked, and took a drink from his mug.

"Maybe. But not recently," John said quietly, and sipped his glass of water. It hurt his pride to have to ask for water, as if he were a frilly girlfriend or a skittish teenager.

"Yeah, you've been honeymooning," Lestrade replied. "Good thing Sherlock isn't here to tell us what it should be called." It was evident to John that he was trying to be sympathetic. But to be honest, it was just annoying. He stiffened at the word.

"How's the wife? I hear she's expecting," Lestrade said politely. John's face turned to stone.

"Who keeps telling you these things?" he snapped. The inspector blinked in shock before replying.

"Mrs. Hudson," he replied tentatively. He hoped the confession wouldn't get the sweet lady in trouble.

John shook his head disapprovingly, deciding to have a talk with her later.

"You know, I think I'm going to go," John said wearily, and stood. Lestrade watched, knowing John well enough to know there was nothing to be said that could make him stay.

"Alright. I'll see you around," the DI replied, and took another drink of his beer, feeling inadequate. He didn't know how to help John, everthing he said seemed to upset him more. Oddly reminiscent of a teenage girl.

"Yeah," John said ambiguously, and left.

Lestrade sighed, looking at his friend's retreating back. Something had happened, something other than Sherlock being his usual idiot self. John had been fine when he'd dropped by the hospital to see Sherlock to get more blackmail material.

Lestrade made a mental note to do that again later. No need to pass up a perfectly good opportunity. Sherlock showed the world exactly what he wanted them to see, including things other people might consider mortifying, so finding something he wanted to guard closely was pretty rare. But when you did get something good, he gave quite the reaction.

Denial, Bargaining.

Threats of Death.

Lestrade chuckled to himself despite his feeling of foreboding. Like Sherlock ever would, he knew that now. The man no more a sociopath than he was.

Which was, of course, not at all.


	8. Cold Turkey

_**A/N:** I AM SO SORRY. I was lazy. I've been busy. I didn't know what to write. Any and all of those are good excuses, right? Wrong. Sorry guys._

_This is set a while after the events of the previous chapter, from John's POV. If anyone was wondering, it all takes places on the same day/night. Hope you enjoy! :)_

_ShiningAngelEyes: Sorry, but I couldn't find a proper place for Lestrade in this chapter. Well, I guess the reality of it is that I'm lazy. Maybe I'll update the chapter later and add another scene, or maybe I'll write a special oneshot... But know that I still intend to write it, my puggle!_

_Onwards to fanfic!_

* * *

"Sherlock, you can't. Sit down _right now_, or-"

"Or what?" the consulting detective interrupted, with a crazed look in his eye. "Any attempt you make to stop me will only cause me harm," he said lowly, stalking slowly toward the door out of his hospital room. "The logical decision is to let me-"

"Kill yourself? Not likely," John retorted, standing with his feet planted squarely in the door frame, arms outstretched and ready for Sherlock's pounce.

It had been a month. A month of living in his old rooms in Baker Street, of working in the days and seeing Sherlock in evenings and on weekends. A month without... _her_. Well, in a way. They still went to a couple of social functions together, faking the newlywed attitude toward each other. It made John's stomach turn, the way they could both lie so easily. And he technically saw her at work, though when she entered to announce a patient, John ignored her presence completely. Being in the same building as her filled his heart with ice.

Sherlock was improving quickly, but still needed to stay under observation. He certainly had no business attempting to catch a serial killer.

"I'm going to _die_ of ennui if I stay in this _wretched_ place any longer," Sherlock said sourly, and feinted right, but John saw through it and didn't move. The sudden movement made Sherlock hiss in pain, but he didn't back down.

"Sherlock. _Sit down_," John repeated, coming closer, intent on physically making him obey.

"John, _please_!" Sherlock pleaded, putting on his saddest face. "I'm going _mad_, and Lestrade's team won't be able to get the warrant before the perpetrator gets away. If he escapes we risk more deaths. Can you live with that?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.

_I can't live with you dead_, John thought reflexively, but shook the thought away as pathetically clingy.

"If I go and take care of it, will you stop being an idiot and sit back down?" John asked, his body still tense and waiting for a move from Sherlock.

Sherlock's face clouded, and his resolve visibly crumbled. He sighed, and sat back down without any further argument.

"Good," John said drily, and picked up his coat from the chair by Sherlock's bed. "Can't imagine you going anywhere in _that_ anyway," he added wryly, gesturing to the hospital gown that Sherlock still wore, drawing a scowl from his friend. He mentally mapped out his trip back to Baker Street to get his service weapon, then to the district where Sherlock had deduced the murderer lived -

"John. Stay," Sherlock said suddenly, the steel of authority in his voice. John blinked in surprise.

"What?" he asked stupidly.

"Stay," Sherlock repeated, pointing to the chair, not allowing for argument.

"I thought you wanted me to catch your serial killer," John replied tonelessly.

"Not necessary," the consulting detective said sternly.

"Are you - sure?" John asked, becoming suspicious that Sherlock planned to escape anyway.

"When aren't I?" Sherlock replied arrogantly. John wisely decided not to reply to that particular statement.

"You're moodier than a teenage girl, Sherlock," John mumbled, and took off his coat and laid it back over the chair. He regretted the jibe a second later, knowing that Sherlock was currently withdrawing from all the morphine. After a month of being constantly buzzed, the detective's body was putting up a fuss and swinging his moods all over the place. John was immensely glad that it was considerably harder for Sherlock to get up to mischief in a hospital than at the flat. It would be a long time before Sherlock fully earned back the trust he had lost in the 'undercover' incident.

"I can usually apply that comparison to you regardless of the situation," Sherlock snapped, and pulled the blanket around himself. The army doctor sighed and went about hooking up Sherlock to all the proper equipment. Once that was finished, John sat heavily in the chair and ran a hand through his hair. These past weeks had taken a lot out of him - he was emotionally exhausted, and that weariness permeated into every other part of his life.

John still hadn't allowed himself to think about - her. Every time the thought of her came on him suddenly - as it often did - there was a sharp pain, and he couldn't make himself proceed any further. But sometimes, sometimes, in the middle of the night - he would reach out to find her warmth, only to be greeted by an empty space and cold sheets.

Despite everything, despite the fact he refused to let himself even think her name, he still missed her sometimes.

His wife.

Too bad she was never real.

"John," Sherlock said, demanding his attention. John groaned internally, dreading what new insanity Sherlock's cold turkey was going to produce next.

"You killed the cabbie," he stated. The army doctor blinked in surprise.

"Yes," he replied hesitantly, wondering briefly if there was something wrong with Sherlock's memory. "And I'd do it again, if I had the chance," he added. To think, if he'd backed down, he might never have gotten to be a part of Sherlock's life. No, he'd do it, a million times.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a while. He stayed quiet, just rubbing over the texture of the over-starched hospital sheets with his thumbs. John was looking him over carefully, wondering if one of Sherlock's many doctors needed to be alerted (having a 'minor position in the British Government' got you special privileges) that something was wrong, when the deep voice appeared in John's ear's again.

"You forgave me," he said, as if John might not have remembered that bit. John's frown deepened, but he humoured Sherlock, not wanting to alarm him.

"Yes I did," he replied, knowing what Sherlock was talking about without having to ask. "You still are forgiven," he continued, wondering if Sherlock was doubting that fact, or was actually asking because he couldn't remember.

"I killed people, you know," the consulting detective said solemnly, raising his eyes to John, who was very concerned by this point, wondering if this was going to constitute a serious problem. Sherlock had never spoken a word to him about what he had done, what had happened to him, while he'd been - away. John wondered if a repression of trauma had caused some sort of psychological breakdown, and swallowed nervously, hoping he was wrong.

"Not in self defense, sometimes, either," Sherlock said, and John could see a haunted look in those aquamarine eyes. "And I lied to you. Do you still forgive me?" asked the detective, and he almost sounded - vulnerable. It sent a breathless feeling through John's chest.

"Of course," he said firmly, and quietly. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes, inexplicably.

Something like triumph flashed in the two bright orbs, and they snapped away, leaving John feel as if he'd been abandoned.

_What just happened?_

After that, Sherlock returned to normal. Or at least, the way he had been before he'd turned all introspective.

They both pretended it didn't happen.

* * *

John lay in his bed at Baker Street, unable to properly sleep.

Thinking about what Sherlock had said.

Why had he done that? John got the feeling there was an express purpose behind those unexpected words, but couldn't think of one aside from Sherlock needing the confirmation of his redemption. That was so unlike him. He had to know that he was in John's good books, he had no reason to believe otherwise. What had suddenly brought up the subject? And why was the fact that he had killed people suddenly important?

The ex-RAMC sighed and turned over, not getting anywhere. He tried to sleep, and managed to get into a half-asleep state. When he shifted, the blanket fell, exposing his skin to the cold air. Reflexively, he pulled the blanket over himself as well as over the space next to him, and realized too late he was the only one there.

Why did he miss her so much? The pain of thinking of her, the betrayal, was painful. But for once, he let his mind go there.

She was an assassin. Took lives for a living. _Everything_ about that grated against John's beliefs, those moral principles that Sherlock mocked him for so much.

She _lied_ to him. Sure, he was just stupid old John Watson, always too stupid to see through the charade. Too stupid. Yes, his therapist had been right about one thing. He did have trust issues, and everything that happened to him seemed to prey on that weakness. Why him? She'd been the one normal thing in his life, his foundation, the thing he could always count on as a constant. But that stability had been ripped away like a bandage off of a wound, leaving him exposed and hurting.

She shot Sherlock. No matter how much Sherlock claimed that it wasn't a big deal, John just couldn't get over it. How could shooting Sherlock _possibly_ be her best option? John knew how close it had been. Sherlock had been clinically dead. His heart had stopped responding to the epinephrine shots.

_Good night Vienna._

It was a true miracle that Sherlock was alive, and even more so that he would make a full recovery. If not for that miracle, he would have lost Sherlock again. And would never have known the truth about his wife.

It made him sick.

_How dare she?_

Then he went very deathly still. Even his breathing came to a stop, and it felt like his heart had done the same.

_Sherlock_.

Sherlock had been trying to tell him something.

He really did feel sick now, now that he understood what Sherlock was trying to get him to understand.

_What have I done?_

Because through all this, through the pain and the sorrow and the betrayal and the _Hell_ of it all, there was something that he'd never quite noticed.

John had wanted to kill her, yes.

Refused to speak to her.

And, out of childish spite, wanted to make her suffer.

Even hated her.

_But_.

Never once had it occurred to him to - leave her forever. Never once had the thought crossed his mind.

Because in spite of it all...

He still loved her.

His wife.

_Mary._

* * *

_**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Again, I'm terribly sorry about the slow update. I recently had a bunch of things start to happen in my life, so I'm still adjusting. To be perfectly honest, though, the real reason I didn't update was writer's block. Hopefully that's past now. Reviews help my writer's block go away... ;)_

_Have a wonderful day, my f(ol)lowers. Tell me your thoughts!_


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